


The Feelings of Freedom

by givethemanapie



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Drabble, Emotions, Feels I guess, killjoys, wrote this a while ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givethemanapie/pseuds/givethemanapie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The emotions of being a killjoy, from the obvious to the obsolete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Feelings of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> So. This happened a while ago when I was listening to the album and having all the feels. May have an add on in the form of an actual fanfiction with a plot later. Who knows?
> 
> Sorry if it doesn't make a ton of sense or flow well, I kind of cobbled it together from a bunch of stuff written at different times. Oops.
> 
> Inspired by a shitton of fanfic reading and my own imagination.
> 
> Any grammar errors? Please please please point them out. I literally do no editing ever, so that would be so appreciated.

There’s a certain freedom that comes with being a Killjoy. A sense of release from practically everything else at the sight of dust trials kicked up miles back still hanging in the air, nothing but more sand and dirt for miles around just waiting to be messed with. Like a canvas, demanding that they mark it up as much as possible with tire treads and fights, to leave a sign. A big ass sign that screamed, ‘The Killjoys were here, fucking shit up’. Loud music that no one in the cities would ever hear or feel. Things that no drac’ or ‘crow could ever take away. Loud, unrestricted laughter with any friends you dared to make. Feelings, emotions, actions, things that had all been taken from everyone else that you decided to do or feel anyways.

A feeling of adventure, brought on by the adrenaline of fights, the unmapped dunes with secrets behind them, the run-ins with other people just like them. People who were running, fighting, going down swinging in a world that would take nothing less than your best in exchange for another breath to draw, another drop to drink, another bite of food to keep your engine running. Fucking over the system almost everyone else accepted as well as they could.

Of course, there are the bright flames of anger flaring among the shifting dunes. Flashes of rage so bright and steady, it’s a miracle the world hasn’t burned yet. Building, growing, shining brighter with each moment passed. Waiting to be released, to get a chance to unleash every ‘screw you’ it has on the city. Ready to burst it into flames, ashes to be collected and spread far away from their home, undeserving of the honor of resting among the grains of sand.

There was also an air of mystery to the whole thing, especially if you were fresh out of the machine know as BL/ind. The strange slang, weird people, and random abandoned buildings didn’t offer much explanation for themselves. They were just there, a puzzle to be solved in your free time. It wasn’t as much, ‘make it or break it’ out here under the sun as, ‘figure shit out or die’.

It wasn’t all fun and games, freedom and fights, living or dying. Not for those who hadn’t been ghosted yet. At all times, no matter how hard you laughed, how much you bled, how free you felt, there was always a bit of melancholy. Usually you buried it under all the other emotions; why go about feeling all depressed when there were jokes to be made and laughed at, people to get angry at and pick a fight with, untouched ground to make your mark on. Doesn’t change the fact that it was there. Especially on those rare quiet nights and days, where no dracs showed up, no deals were made, and nobody died; the days where you were left to your thoughts, the wind rushing past drowning out pretty much anything else. Thoughts about what the point of it all was. Why they were all running. How, even if their lives were meaningless, at least they might be better off just not feeling jack shit.

It didn’t all end at the actual thoughts. Sometimes it was a feeling, nothing more. Not a thing to put words to, or to try and explain. Brought on by just how empty the desert was, how little change there was, how little change would ever happen in their lives, the routineness of shootkillrunrestockrepeat. Maybe it was something about the unforgiving heat of the sun, or the relentless chill that came with the night, how they didn’t discriminate. Perhaps it was how alone you truly were, how small you felt, even alongside a few trusted friends. Whatever brought it on, it was still there, brushing away all amusement or rage from whatever may have happened in the past few hours. Replacing it with something no one really enjoyed.

A constant stain of tragedy, threaded throughout the sand and stars, was also there. A reminder of past sorrows, of lives lost and destroyed. Woven by death and kept alive by the enemy. The tear stains of the living, mourning the dead, and worse. Lives lost or ruined, be it in city or sand, a constant backdrop to the bright colors of desert life. After all, how can we see and appreciate the light without darkness telling us it’s there?

Let's not forget hopelessness, a pervading feeling as permanent as the dunes, as constant and the cycles of night and day. The knowledge that you’re fighting on the losing side of a battle, and everyone knows it. Every mission borderline suicide, a daily dance with death. Every battle a haze of sorrow and rage and regret and pain. Stupidity and false bravado, born of desperation and panic. The threat of being ghosted, lost to the winds, hanging over your head as you fight for an unreachable goal.

From the lack of hope rises something new: a drive. If the saying ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’ rang true among the rolling dunes and shifting sands, the world would have been fixed long ago. Initiative, cobbled together from a mix of emotions, varying from ‘runner to ‘runner. Coalescing into one goal, plain and simple; make them pay. In a world where you having nothing more to lose, or what you have left could be gone at any moment, what’s to stop you from making sure your blood doesn’t flow alone when the time comes? What remains to stop you from leaving your mark, fighting your fight, hopeless as it may be? In a world where there’s nothing to do but fight, die, or surrender - a fate most consider worse than death - you may as well do your best to leave an imprint in the grains, whether it be flowing blood, abandoned bodies, or scorch marks scattered about the ground and buildings.

Despite all these feelings, through the ups ad the downs, they all went about their days, trying to find ways to keep the darker thoughts repressed, replaced with bright sparks of anger, soft flashing of amusement, shining beams of exhilaration. Whatever it took to not only stay alive, but feel that way too.


End file.
